Ah, Dean, we'll just call him Cleopatra, because he is truly Queen Of Denial...
Chapter Nine
"How far does she go when she does this?" asked Andrew, still sweeping his flashlight along the undergrowth as they crawled slowly past an overgrown verge.
"It depends," Sam replied, "The problem is with how surreptitiously she sneaks off. She can be gone for hours before anybody even notices, and by then, she's miles away."
"If only we knew what she was doing," sighed Andrew, "We might be able to take a guess at where she wants to go."
"Dean says that her trekking is a scathing indictment of Bobby's cooking," Sam smiled a little, "But there has to be more to it than that."
"Something to do with her Hellhound heritage?" Andrew wondered. "You don't seem inclined to wander off looking for demons to use as chew toys, do you?" he ruffled Lars' ears, and the pup whuffed happily. "He's very happy to be with you," the werewolf smiled.
"Really?" asked Sam earnestly. "He told you that?"
"He doesn't have to," Andrew grinned as the pup flopped down against Sam again. His face became sad. "I was so sorry to hear about Jimi," he went on quietly. "It's a hard thing to lose a dog. Ronnie still isn't over losing Joni. I don't know if I am either."
"Bobby says you never 'get over it'," Sam sympathised, "The memories just get less… HEY!" he protested as Lars climbed into his lap. "I'm trying to drive here! Ooo-OOO-oh, bad touch bad touch!" he yelped as the pup's feet landed in his groin. "Are you trying to crash us? Stop it!" He braked as the pup nosed at the window and whined. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Sam, put the window down," Andrew told him, watching Lars intently.
Sam rolled the driver's side window down, and Lars put his front paws on the sill, getting another yelp from Sam when his back paws landed somewhere sensitive again. "Aaaaargh! What is it, fella?"
Lars whined, then leaned out and barked sharply into the darkness.
"That's a call to an immediate pack member," translated Andrew, lifting his flashlight again, but I can't see... there! Hit high beam!"
Sam killed the engine and hit the switch, and the truck's headlamps lit up the road ahead.
Trotting steadily towards them through the rain was Lita.
Sam groaned and slumped with relief. "Finally," he groused, getting out of the truck, "Come on, missy, time to go home... hey!"
Ignoring him completely, the little dog bent her head against the weather, and trotted puposefully right past him.
"Lita!" he called, "Lita, get your wandering little ass right back here!" He ran to catch up to her, and snatched her up. "We've been out in the weather looking for you, and you are going home right now, young lady!"
She regarded him seriously, until Sam started to feel like a bug under a microscope.
He unceremoniously deposited her in Andrew's lap, and got back into the truck. "See if you can call them," he suggested. "I'm gonna buy a GPS tracker and nail it to you," he griped at the female pup.
Ronnie's phone went through to voicemail, as did Dean's, so Andrew he left them messages, but there must've been a break in the weather, because he managed to call Bobby. "We got her," Andrew reassured the old Hunter, "Yeah, safe and sound, and completely unrepentant. Headed back towards the yard. No, no idea." He broke off, and whuffed gently to the pup, who yipped back briefly. "She's not saying," he went on, "Just that she wants to go back now. I dunno. Women. Who knows? Yeah, let 'em know. Bye." He cut the call. "He'll keep trying to call them."
"Huh," Sam huffed irritably, "They're probably finalising the details of Operation Gross-Out as we speak."
"It's all right for them, they didn't get all wet fetching madam here," grumped Andrew, patting Lita.
"They'll probably get back before we do," Sam guessed.
"And they'll laugh at us for getting wet," surmised Andrew.
Sam started the truck, backed around carefully, and headed for the salvage yard. "Well, look at it this way," he empathised, "Our evening has been more exciting than theirs. Right now, they're probably both bitching that they're dying of boredom."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Lemmy hunkered down against the front seat and whined. Dean wanted to do that as well, but there really wasn't room for him to join his dog. Besides, he had to keep watching and shoving wadded up towels under Ronnie's claws, unless he wanted the back seat remodelled with extreme prejudice.
It wasn't like he'd never seen an Old North Werewolf up close and personal before. He'd dealt with several, including adult males, hulking monsters, and he was well acquainted with just how big and hairy and fast and ruthless and brutal and nasty they could be.
"Raaaaaaaawrooooooooooo!"
What he'd never really noticed before, he thought, was just how loud they could be...
"RaaaaaaaaaarrrRRRRRRRROOOOOOO!"
Especially in an enclosed space, like the interior of a car.
"So, er, how's it going?" he asked tentatively. The panting monster looked up at him, giving him an expression that was astonishingly close to one of his brother's bitchfaces, then let its head fall back to the seat, its flanks heaving. "Is it, you know," he waved a hand vaguely at the creature's hindquarters, "Getting any closer to, um, you know..."
As a rule, Old North wolves in lupine form did not have the dexterity to handle weapons; Ronnie had practised for years to be able to perform the astonishing feat of wielding a knife whilst in four-legged form. The painstakingly acquired manual dexterity of her front paws stood her in good stead, affording her the means to answer his query.
She flipped him the big vee.
"Right, right," he nodded, eyeing her carefully, keenly aware that the gun he was carrying was not loaded with silver ammo. "So, uh, scalp massage is supposed to help – of course, you're pretty much scalp all over like this..."
Ronnie curled her lip at him and growled.
"Yeah, okay, foot massage is..." he glanced at the claws that were capable of disembowelling another werewolf. "Maybe not such a good idea in this case. Not unless I want to lose my hands. At the elbows." He looked bereft of ideas. "There was chocolate, too, I remember there was chocolate, but I don't think I have any here..." His foot kicked at the glove box, which sprung open. "I might have some M&Ms," he suggested, turning to peer into the compartment, "Nope, sorry, looks like a bust for chocolate, I guess... aha!" He turned back to her, grinning in triumph, brandishing a half-full flask. "It's okay! We got booze!" He took a long drink. "Well, I got booze. Pregnant people aren't supposed to drink. It's okay, I'll drink yours for you, that's just how awesome I am." He did so. "Oh, fuck, that's better, so, if you're HEY! Look out for my upholstery!"
Ronnie let out an ululating howl, and Dean shoved another towel between her claws and the back seat, muttering about the hassle of repairs. "Getting the pleats done right again is a total bitch," he complained, wedging it under one of her hind feet, "And it AAAAAAAAARGH!" His eyes bugged. "AAAAAAARGH! JESUS CHRIST RONNIE IT'S FUCKING HEAD IS STICKING OUT! AT LEAST I HOPE THAT'S ITS HEAD. OHGODOHGODOHGOD IT'S STICKING OUT! RONNIE IT'S STICKING OUT OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD NOOOOOO MY UPHOLSTERYYYYYY!"
Ronnie howled in pain. Dean howled in horror. Lemmy joined in, just on general principles.
As Dean watched, transfixed, a wet, gloopy bundle slid onto the seat, and Ronnie sagged with exhaustion.
"OH MY GOD IT'S A GREAT BIG BOOGER!" he shrieked, "IT'S LIKE A GREAT BIG BOOGER AND IT'S TOTALLY GROSS!"
Dean gawped in horror, wondering what he was supposed to do. The sticky, yukky little thing just lay there, and then...
"IT'S TWITCHIIIIIIIING! THE BOOGER IS TWITCHIIIIING!"
Ronnie held out her forelimbs, and made a soft whining noise. Gulping and trying very hard not to think about throwing up, Dean took a deep breath, and picked the squelchy, snotty thing, wondering if werewolves were like kangaroos, with babies that were born when they weren't much past the 'a big bunch of cells stuck together' stage, ,maybe it would grow legs later...
As he made to pass it to Ronnie, the slippery membranous coverings tore, and...
A werewolf pup popped out.
Dean stared. The pup was curled in on itself, its dark grey fluffy fur damp and clinging, its ears flat against its head. It wiggled a little, then yawned, gasped, and let out a soft cry, waving one of its tiny little front legs agitatedly.
It was amazing.
Dean used one of the towels to clean the rest of the membrane and mess from the little body. It let out another yip, louder this time, and pedalled its front limbs vigorously, feeling warm and very alive in his hands.
Two bright blue eyes cracked open sleepily, and struggled to focus on him. It waved little paws at him, and yowled loudly.
Smiling hugely, he wrapped the pup in a towel, and handed it to Ronnie, who curled around it, and whuffed and crooned to it.
"A boy," breathed Dean, "He's a boy. Zeck is a boy. You have a son."
Lemmy had his front feet on the back of the front seat, watching proceedings with great interest, and wagging his tail so hard it was in danger of falling off. Dean slumped back into the seat beside him, and patted him.
"Well," he told his own pup, taking another drink, "That was... interesting."
His phone chirped with a message, and he grinned. "They found Lita," he relayed, "Headed back to Bobby's. Go figure. Women. They're impossible to work out. It must be the hormones."
Ronnie found the energy to flip him off.
He finally managed to get a call through to Bobby, and the older man hooted with laughter when he heard the news.
"He'll be here in about twenty minutes to pull us out," Dean explained, "So we just gotta sit tight." He eyed his bottle critically. "I guess I'll have to ration this. I'd offer to share, but..."
A long, hairy arm extended and carefully took the flask from him. Ronnie managed to take a drink without spilling a drop, burped discreetly, and handed it back.
"Impressive," Dean conceded. He raised the flask. "Here's to Zeck, whose timing is as bad as his entrance was disturbing." He drank, then settled comfortably with Lemmy, watching Ronnie and... well, Zeck, in the rear view mirror.
She had a recognisably doggy grin on her face as she sniffed and nuzzled at the newborn, who yipped and mewled back, and Dean wondered if he was going soppy, because for a moment, a scarred werewolf looked beautiful.
He grinned to himself, and decided to worry about the upholstery later.
Awwwwwww PUPPEEEZ!
Reviews are the Adorably Cuddly Puppies Handed To You By The Winchester Of Your Choice on the Back Seat Of Life!*
*If you want to do anything unseemly with the Winchester Of Your Choice on the Back Seat Of Life, please mind the upholstery.